Free Terminal by Brian Keene Page A

Sherm agreed. “That’s how I’d do it.”
    “But that’s crazy! What about Michelle and T. J.? Why would you do that to them?”
    “I’m doing it for them, man! They deserve a better life, better than the one I can give them. What the hell do you think will happen to them when I’m gone? We sure as shit don’t have any life insurance. You think they can make it on what Michelle gets paid at the Minit-Mart?”
    “The same thing happens if you go to jail, Tommy. How are you gonna support them behind bars? Do you want to go to jail? You know what happens in there? You ever watch Oz? The homeboys try to fuck you in the ass and make you their prison bitch, or else you end up with the skinheads just to stay alive!”
    I put my hand on his shoulder.
    “John, if they bust me and I go to jail, so what? What’s the worst thing they could give me? Life in prison? Big deal. I don’t have much of that left anyway. Life in prison is a maximum sentence of one month for me. Think about it. I’m fucking dying, man. Hell, I’d probably be dead before it even went to trial.”
    Chewing his lip, John slowed down to turn into the diner.
    “Keep going,” Sherm said.
    “I thought you wanted coffee?”
    “I do, but that was before Tommy dropped the robbery bomb on us. The middle of the diner isn’t the place to be talking about this shit. Use your head. ‘Hello, police? We heard about the bank robbery on the news tonight, and just last week, my husband and I were enjoying a piece of apple pie at the diner, and we overheard Tommy O’Brien and his two hoodlum friends talking about doing that very thing.’ See what I mean?”
    “So where are we going?” John quit chewing his lip and began chewing the cuticle on his thumb instead.
    “How about the lake?” I suggested.
    “Works for me,” Sherm agreed, “but let’s stop first. I still need smokes and coffee. I’m jonesing bad, man.”
    We stopped at a twenty-four-hour drugstore, the kind that sold nicotine patches right next to the cigarettes, and Sherm went inside. John was quiet, gripping the wheel and staring straight ahead while we waited.
    Finally, I couldn’t stand his silence any longer.
    “What, John? What’s wrong now?”
    He continued staring ahead. His voice was nothing more than a whisper.
    “I don’t want you to die, Tommy. I’m scared.”
    “I don’t want to die, John. I’m scared too.”
    He loosened a bit, sinking back into the seat and staring out the window. I got the impression that he was looking at something far away and out of sight.
    “Remember when we used to ride our bikes out the old Bowman Road? We’d go swimming down in the creek, and afterward, we’d stop off at the newsstand and you’d buy comic books and I’d buy baseball cards.”
    I nodded, smiling. “Wish I still had those G. I. Joe and Transformer comics, and the one where Spider-Man got his black costume. Those are worth a lot of money now. And even if I didn’t sell them, they’d be cool to pass on to T. J., you know?”
    “Yeah. My mom threw my baseball cards out. I’m still pissed about that. Do you remember the Millers who lived on Bowman Road? They had that Doberman pinscher. What was his name?”
    “Catcher,” I answered. “Jesus Christ, I hated that fucking dog.”
    “Me too. Sometimes Catcher was outside and he’d tear down the driveway after us when we rode by. Remember when he bit Rich Wagaman?”
    “Oh hell yeah! Took eleven stitches to sew his leg up and he couldn’t do anything the rest of the summer.”
    “I was always scared of Catcher— but you, Tommy, you weren’t scared of nothing. I’ll never forget that day we were riding to the creek, and I slowed down, listening for the dog. He came running toward us and I was so scared I fell off my bike. I almost shit my pants. Then, just as he was about to bite me, you pulled out that squirt gun with the lemon juice in it and you shot him in the eyes. Right in the eyes! He yelped and ran away and